And thus we're wheeled about in life's short farce,
Till we at last are wheel'd off, in a rumbling hearse;
The midwife wheels us in, and death wheels us out,
Good lack! good lack! how things are wheel'd about!

WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS.

THE HON. R. W. SPENCER.

ONE day when to Jove the black list was presented,
The list of what Fate for each mortal intends,

At the long string of ills a kind Goddess relented,

And slipp'd in three blessings-Wife, Children, and Friends.

In vain surly Pluto declar'd he was cheated,

And Justice divine could not compass its ends,

The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated,

For Earth becomes Heaven, with-Wife, Children, and Friends.

The day-spring of youth still unclouded with sorrow,

Alone on itself for enjoyment depends;

But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow

No warmth from the smiles of-Wife, Children, and Friends. Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish

The laurel, which o'er her dead favourite bends;

O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish,

Bedew'd with the tears of-Wife, Children, and Friends.

For we can wrestle and fight, my boys,
And jump o'er anywhere,—

For it's my delight on a shiny night,
In the season of the year.

As me and my comàrade,

Were setting four or five,
And taking of him up again,

We caught the hare alive;

We took the hare alive, my boys,

And thro' the woods did steer,-
Oh it's my delight on a shiny night,
In the season of the year.

We threw him o'er our shoulders,
And then we trudged home,
We took him to a neighbour's house,
And sold him for a crown;
We sold him for a crown, my boys,
But I did not tell you where,—
Oh! it's my delight on a shiny night,
In the season of the year.

Success to every gentleman

That lives in Lincolnshire,

Success to every poacher,

That wants to sell a hare.

Bad luck to every gamekeeper

That will not sell his deer,

For it's my delight on a shiny night,

In the season of the year.

The date and origin of this song are unknown.

Though it has not the slightest pretensions to literary merit, its subject, and the melody have long made it popular among the English peasantry. "It has been sung," says Mr. Chappell, "by several hundred voices together, at the harvest homes of George the Fourth."

I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY.

J. O'KEEFFE. From the Opera of "Merry Sherwood."

I AM a Friar of orders grey,

And down in the valleys I take my way,
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,
Good store of venison fills my scrip;

My long bead-roll I merrily chant,
Where'er I walk no money I want ;

And why I'm so plump the reason I tell—,
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What baron or squire,

After

Or knight of the shire,

Lives half so well as a holy friar ?

supper of heaven I dream,

But that is a pullet and clouted cream;
Myself, by denial, I mortify-

With a dainty bit of a warden pie;
I'm cloth'd in sackcloth for my sin;
With old sack wine I'm lined within:
A chirping cup is my matin song,

And the vesper bell is my bowl, ding dong.
What baron or squire,

Or knight of the shire,

Lives half so well as a holy friar?

ALL'S WELL.

THOMAS DIBDIN, Sung in the "British Fleet," an Opera by S. J. ARNOLD

DESERTED by the waning moon,

When skies proclaim night's cheerless noon,

On tower, or fort, or tented ground

The sentry walks his lonely round;
And should a footstep haply stray
Where caution marks the guarded way,
"Who goes there? Stranger, quickly tell."
"A friend ". "The word." "Good night;"

Or sailing on the midnight deep,
When weary messmates soundly sleep,
The careful watch patrols the deck,

To guard the ship from foes or wreck;
And while his thoughts oft homewards veer,
Some friendly voice salutes his ear-

"What cheer? Brother, quickly tell;

." "All's well."

Above-below." "Good night;" "All's well."

HOME, SWEET HOME.

J. HOWARD PAYNE, in the opera of "Clari, the Maid of Milan.”

'MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble there's no place like home!
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home! home, sweet home!

There's no place like home!

An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain!
Oh! give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again!
The birds singing gaily that came at my call :—
Give me these and the peace of mind, dearer than all !
Home! home, &c.

HARK, THE CONVENT BELLS ARE RINGING.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.

HARK, the convent bells are ringing,
And the nuns are sweetly singing;

Holy Virgin, hear our prayer!

See the novice comes to sever,
Every worldly tie for ever;-

Take, oh, take her to your care!
Still radiant gems are shining,
Her jet black locks entwining,
And her robes around her flowing,
With many tints are glowing

But all earthly rays are dim.—
Splendours brighter

Now invite her,

While thus we chant our vesper hymn.

Now the lovely maid is kneeling,
With uplifted eyes appealing;-

Holy Virgin, hear our prayer!

See the abbess bending o'er her,

Breathes the sacred vow before her ;

Take, oh, take her to your care!

Her form no more possesses, Those dark luxuriant tresses. The solemn words are spoken, Each earthly tie is broken, And all earthly joys are dim.Splendours brighter,

Now invite her,

While thus we chant our vesper hymn.

ISLE OF BEAUTY, FARE THEE WELL.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.

SHADES of ev'ning close not o'er us,

Leave our lonely bark awhile;

Morn, alas! will not restore us

Yonder dim and distant isle.

Still my fancy can discover

Sunny spots where friends may dwell;

Darker shadows round us hover,

Isle of Beauty, Fare thee well!

'Tis the hour when happy faces

Smile around the taper's light;

Who will fill our vacant places ?

Who will sing our songs to-night? Through the mist that floats above us Faintly sounds the vesper bell, Like a voice from those who love us, Breathing fondly, Fare thee well!

When the waves are round me breaking,
As I pace the deck alone,

And my eye in vain is seeking

Some green leaf to rest upon.

When on that dear land I ponder,

Where my old companions dwell,

Absence makes the heart grow fonder-
Isle of Beauty, Fare thee well!